Chapter II: § 1 (2)

But even with this much settled, she was no nearer making up her mind than she had ever been. Marriage meant giving up the office, the close affiliations she had formed there. Propinquity had made her fellow-workers her friends; she knew them all intimately, knew something of their private lives, rejoiced or sorrowed with them at the inevitable changes of fortune. When an eminent surgeon from Germany performed a miraculous operation on Mr. Featherstone’s little son and gave him the use of his legs on which he had never walked, she shared his father’s joy; when Mr. Cavendish married a charming Vassar girl who was the daughter of a wealthy Wall Street banker, she congratulated him with a real pleasure; when Miss Holland’s seventeen-year-old nephew secured an appointment at Annapolis and successfully passed the entrance examination, she took keen satisfaction in her friend’s delight. She was shocked and saddened when Sandy MacGregor’s wife died, and when Mr. Allister was taken ill with pneumonia no one inquired more frequently about him while he struggled desperately to live, or felt more pleasure when it was announced he had turned the corner and would before long be back again at his desk. She was glad when Francis Holme, Walt Chase and Sandy MacGregor each received a substantial gift of the company’s common stock at Christmas-time, and was correspondingly sorry that Horatio Stephens and Willis Corey shared equally in the honorarium. When Miss Peckenbaugh asked for a raise in salary, and her request was endorsed by Mr. Allister, she took it upon herself to tell Mr. Corey certain facts about the young lady that had become known to her, and when as a result, the request was refused and Miss Peckenbaugh in anger resigned, she was amused and delighted. At the same time she urged and secured a five-dollar raise per week for old Major Ticknor who had a little blind grandchild he was helping to maintain in a private sanitarium. Young Tommy Livingston in the bindery had impressed her upon a certain occasion with his brightness and ability, and she recommended him warmly to Mr. Corey, and had the satisfaction of seeing him promoted to a desk in Mr. Kipps’ department. At her suggestion, window-boxes filled with flowers were put along the windows of the press-room that faced the street; she persuaded the firm to install a lunch-room for the women employees on the eighth floor, and it was her idea that a regular trained nurse be engaged and established in a small but complete infirmary within the building. She induced Mr. Corey to offer a certain rising young author, whose work had been her discovery and who was showing steady improvement, an increase in royalty percentage, and she prevented the publication of a certain piece of fiction, which Corey had given her to read, because she considered it vicious, despite Mr. Allister’s strong recommendation. She advised her chief to instruct Horatio Stephens to order a series of articles from a woman writer whose work in another magazine had interested her, and she urged him not to engage a certain Madame Desseau of Paris, a designer of women’s clothes, as the fashion editor of _The Ladies’ Fortune_. Jeannette had a hand in almost every important step that was taken. Mr. Corey respected her judgment, frequently consulted her, and sometimes followed her advice even when contrary to his inclinations. He often told her that he believed her intuition was unerring and the greatest possible help to him.

§ 10

That particular winter proved an exceptionally strenuous and exacting one for Mr. Corey. He was worn out with work and with the ever increasing demands upon him, demands that came more and more from the outside.

The P. P. Prescott Publishing Company, a house with a reputation of half a century of high literary output, through mismanagement was in danger of bankruptcy. While the “P P P” books were famous the world over, the bank that had financed the concern for years was tired of the arrangement; the tottering house owed the Chandler B. Corey Company nearly a hundred thousand dollars for subscription premiums Francis Holme had sold it, and it was a foregone conclusion that if the Prescott Company failed, there would be no way of collecting the debt. Mr. Corey wanted to take over the Prescott Company entirely,--it could have been bought at the time for practically nothing by assuming its obligations,--but this was one of their chief’s bold and brilliant ideas that Mr. Kipps and Mr. Featherstone opposed and, to Jeannette’s intense regret, persuaded him against. The result was that instead of absorbing the Prescott Company, and letting the Corey organization administer its various activities, Mr. Corey was forced to become chairman of the board which undertook to put the older publishing house on its feet again, and to do most of the work himself.

In addition to this he was compelled to accept the leadership of a committee appointed by the Publishers’ Association to confer with the postal authorities in Washington regarding the rates on second class mail matter which were in danger of being raised. He had been obliged to make several trips to the capital. He was one of the directors of a large paper mill which, in conjunction with some other publishers, he had purchased. He had shown an interest in local politics and had been put on the Republican State Central Committee; he was one of the governors of the Swanee Valley Golf Club, and executor of the estate of Julius Zachariah Rosenbaum, a wealthy Jewish capitalist, whose autobiography he had published during the old Hebrew’s life. No one outside the immediate members of the firm, with the exception of Jeannette, knew that Rosenbaum had taken sixty thousand subscriptions to _Corey’s Commentary_ when the story of his life was appearing in serial form in that magazine, and when the book was published he ordered twenty-five thousand copies, presumably to distribute among his friends. Poor Rosenbaum! It was doubtful if he had a score, and when he died there was universal rejoicing throughout the country that the most grasping of moneyed barons, who had consistently obstructed the wheels of progress, was gone. But he left a large slice of his wealth in charitable endowments, and named Chandler B. Corey as one of the executors of his will.

These responsibilities weighed heavily upon Mr. Corey’s health and strength. He had been troubled with indigestion for several months and his general condition was not good. In addition there were domestic cares. With the increase of their fortunes, Mrs. Corey had moved herself and her family into a stone front house on Riverside Drive where she proceeded to maintain an expensive order of existence. She had begged hard for this new home, and her husband weakly had given way. He never seemed able to refuse his wife anything, Jeannette thought. He could be strong about other matters, but where Mrs. Corey and his son, Willis, were concerned he was foolishly irresolute. Mrs. Corey established herself in great feather in the new house, hired four servants in addition to a liveried chauffeur, who drove her Pope-Toledo, and began to entertain lavishly. Her special victims were authors, particularly visiting ones from England, and if any of them happened to be titled, it was always the occasion for an elaborate affair. Mr. Corey hated these entertainments, and to avoid them frequently went to Washington on the plea of pressing business connected with the postal rates. The new order was exceedingly expensive. Jeannette could not understand why Mr. Corey put up with it.

But his wife’s reckless expenditure was a matter of small concern in comparison with his anxiety for his daughter. The unfortunate girl had fallen during a sudden epileptic seizure, and struck her head upon a brass fender at the hearth. She had lain for three months in a semi-conscious condition, and though treatments had partially restored her mind, she was not wholly competent and would never again be able to go about without an attendant. It was a great grief to her father. His troubles had been further augmented at this particular time by Willis, who had been paying marked attention to a married society woman with an unenviable reputation for many affairs with young men. Mr. Corey solved this particular problem by sending Willis on a hunting expedition to South Africa with Eric Ericsson, the Norwegian explorer. Ostensibly the young man went to write articles about the trip for _Corey’s Commentary_. It was announced he was to be gone for a year. Jeannette was aware that Mr. Corey had paid Ericsson five thousand dollars to take his son with him; the money had been given, of course, in the form of a contribution to scientific research.

It was small wonder that Corey’s physician ordered a complete rest for him in the early spring of the year. The man was threatened with a nervous breakdown, his doctor told him; the matter of his indigestion must have his serious attention; he must take a vacation, and he must take it immediately. Affairs at the office made it impossible, at the moment, for this vacation to be of any length; even Jeannette realized that it would be hazardous for the company to be left without Mr. Corey’s guiding hand on the helm. It was decided that he should go to White Sulphur Springs, play golf as much as he was able, give especial attention to his diet, and keep in touch with the office by mail and telegraph. He would be able, it was hoped, to get a complete change of climate and a proper rest by this arrangement.

“Of course, you’ll have to go with me, Miss Sturgis,” he said, wheeling round upon her when this conclusion had been reached. “I couldn’t do a thing down there without you.”

“Why, certainly,” the girl answered. As their eyes met a moment, the same thought passed through both minds.

“We’ll take your mother along,” said Corey in his brisk, direct fashion.

Mrs. Sturgis at once was in a great state of agitation.

“But my pupils, dearie,--my little pupils!” she cried. “What will the darlings do without their lessons?”

“Well, the little darlings can get along without them,” Jeannette told her. “When their parents want to take them off to the mountains or the seashore, they just take them, and there’s never any question about paying for cancelled lessons. I guess you can do the same for once in your life.... Anyhow, there’s no use arguing about it, Mama. Mr. Corey needs me, and if you don’t go with me, I’ll go without you. It’s perfectly ridiculous that we have to be chaperoned! He’s like my father! ... But I thought you’d enjoy the trip. You know it isn’t going to cost either of us a penny!”

“Why, of course, dearie,--but you kind of spring this on me. I haven’t had a chance to think it over.... Of course, I’d love it.”

§ 11

White Sulphur Springs was beautiful, the weather perfection; Jeannette enjoyed every hour of her stay. She had wanted to get off by herself for some time, to think calmly over what she must do about Martin Devlin. He had given her one of his hungry kisses when he said good-bye, and she felt at the moment he was dearer to her than life itself. He was urging her with voice, eyes and lips to be his wife. A realization had come to her that she could temporize with the situation no longer; she must either agree to marry him, or in some way bring the intimacy to an end.

Corey played golf mornings and afternoons. Jeannette watched his mail, and answered most of it herself, only consulting him when necessary. She would give him brief memorandums of what his mail contained, and show him the carbons of the letters she had dispatched, signed with his name, “per J. S.” He did not have to give more than an hour a day to his affairs.

The doctor had warned him about his diet, and had directed him to take a hydrochloric acid prescription three times a day. Jeannette watched his food as well as his mail; she studied the menus in the dining-room and ordered his meals in advance, so that he would be sure to eat the proper food; she made him take his medicine, and persuaded him to try some electric baths that were operated in connection with the hotel. She kept a chart of his weight, and when they met at the breakfast table she would inquire about his night. She saw with satisfaction that he was improving steadily; his face, neck and hands were turning a healthy bronze color, his appetite was excellent, his sleep undisturbed.

At first a problem presented itself in Mrs. Sturgis. The little woman was intensely excited at being so closely associated with Mr. Corey. His presence agitated her; she felt it was her duty to entertain him, to evince an interest in his comings and goings, to maintain a pleasant and polite ripple of conversation at the table or whenever they were together. She believed it was expected of her to show an interest equal to her daughter’s in the state of his health, and that she must always inquire how he felt and how he had passed the night. Jeannette knew Mr. Corey hated this kind of fussy solicitude; it annoyed and irritated him. The girl suffered acutely whenever her mother commenced to ply him with her prim inquiries, or when she pretended to be interested in his golf game about which she knew, and her daughter and Mr. Corey knew she knew, not one thing. Jeannette suspected there were moments when Mr. Corey could have strangled her with delight.

There came a distressing hour eventually to mother and daughter. Jeannette had to tell her that Mr. Corey did not like her concern as to his welfare, that he had come down to White Sulphur Springs to rest, and that he must be spared all possible conversation. Mrs. Sturgis wept. She declared she had never been so “insulted” in her life, that she was going to pack her trunk and go home at once.

It was in the midst of this scene that a bell-boy of the hotel brought Jeannette a telegram addressed to Mr. Corey. She tore it open. It was from his wife.

“Dear Chandler, am lonesome without you. Wish to join you for rest of your stay. Wire me if I may come. Can leave at once. Love.

Rachael.”

Jeannette shut her teeth slowly as she read the words. It was most unfortunate. Mrs. Corey would upset her husband, would interfere with his daily routine, clash with him at once over his golf, object to the time he gave to it, find fault with Jeannette’s presence, angrily resent her supervision of his health and meals, so that little of the hoped-for good would result from these weeks of rest and recreation. And Mr. Corey would amiably agree to letting her join him!

Jeannette’s distress soon persuaded Mrs. Sturgis to forget her own grievances. Once her sympathy for her daughter was aroused, she waxed indignant over Mrs. Corey’s selfishness and lack of consideration.

“Why, the woman must be crazy,” she said warmly. “He came down here just to get away from her!”

“Oh, I know,” murmured Jeannette, “and as sure as I show him her telegram he will tell me to wire her to come at once.”

“Well, I wouldn’t tell him anything about it,” declared Mrs. Sturgis.

They fell to discussing the situation. After long consultation and several efforts at drafting it, they concocted the following answer:

“Mr. Corey is not well. I think it would be unwise for you to join him just now. He is getting a maximum amount of rest and sleep and anything tending to interfere with these I believe would be unfortunate. Will keep you advised of his condition.

Jeannette Sturgis.”

In the middle of the night that followed, Jeannette awoke, and considered what she had done. As she lay awake reviewing the matter, the conviction slowly came to her that she had committed a dreadful blunder. Her mouth grew dry; a cold sweat broke out on her. She got up, went to the window and gazed out upon the flat moonlight that filled the hotel garden below with evil shadows.

Mrs. Corey was certain to be wild! She would be insane with anger! Jeannette could follow the workings of her mind: Was her husband’s secretary to presume to tell her what she should do where his welfare was concerned? Was this stenographer at so much a week to take it upon herself to tell her employer’s wife she did not think her presence at her husband’s side a good thing for him? Was she implying that it would be harmful, distressful for him? Did she have such entire confidence in herself and her judgment that she could send a telegram like that without even consulting him? ...

Oh, the heavens were about to fall! It was an irreparable mistake! Mr. Corey, himself, would be furious with her! The mental distress she had been anxious to save him, she had, with her own hand, brought ten times more heavily upon him! She was a fool,--an utter, inexcusable fool! She was--was--was----

She did not sleep the rest of the night. She rolled and tossed in her bed, and walked the floor.

In the morning she went straight to Mr. Corey and told him what she had done. His seriousness as he frowned, and pulled at his moustache confirmed her worst fears. He made no comment; asked a few questions; there was nothing more. Jeannette went on talking volubly, at times incoherently, for the first time in all the years she had been his secretary, trying to justify herself. Suddenly a rush of tears blinded her; she tried to check them; it was useless.

“Well, well, well, Miss Sturgis,” Corey said consolingly patting her folded hands. “You mustn’t take it so hard. It’s not such a serious matter. You’re making too much of it. I guess I can square it for both of us.”

He drew a sheet of hotel paper toward him and scribbled a couple of lines with his fountain pen.

“Here,” he said, shoving it towards her. “Send her this telegram and see how it works.”

Jeannette read what he had written through blurred vision.

“Dear Rachael, Miss Sturgis has shown me your wire of yesterday. I agree with her that it would be a mistake for you to join me just at present. Am writing you. Much love.

Chandler.”

The girl looked up at him with swimming eyes. Impulsively she caught his hand; his generosity overwhelmed her; in a moment she had pressed the hand to her lips.

§ 12

They returned to New York the end of March. Mrs. Sturgis had been in a flutter of excitement during the last ten days of their stay; she was madly anxious to get home to see Alice, who had written she was going to have another baby. Both her mother and sister were distressed at the news; they felt it was unfortunate she was going to have one so soon after her first. Little Etta was not a year old yet.

On Washington’s Birthday, which fell on a Friday that year, Martin Devlin had come all the way from New York to see Jeannette. He had brought with him in his pocket a flawless, claw-set diamond solitaire in a little plush jeweller’s box and had begged Jeannette to allow him to slip it on her finger. She had found herself missing him during the weeks of separation more than she had believed it possible she could miss anyone; she missed his big hands and his big voice, his indefatigable solicitude, his joyous laugh, his unwavering love for her. In the months,--it was close to a year,--that she had known him, she had grown dependent upon these; Martin was part of her life now; she could not imagine it without him; love had enriched the existence of both. But she was no nearer marrying him than she had ever been. During the weeks of sunshine, the hours of solitude and thinking she had enjoyed, it seemed to her that marriage would be a terrible mistake; she believed she saw her destiny lying straight ahead; she had chosen a vocation, and like a nun, who renounces marriage, she too must give up all thought of being a wife. She must pursue her life work unhampered by domesticity. Not forever would she be Mr. Corey’s secretary; there were heights beyond she planned to attain. She told herself she had the capacity of being a successful executive; some day she would hold a position like Miss Holland’s, have a department of her own. Walt Chase had charge of the Mail Order business; one of these days he would be promoted to something more responsible, and Jeannette intended then to ask Mr. Corey to give her his place. She knew she could do the work,--perhaps even better than Walt Chase. She had plans already to make it larger and to get out special literature designed to arouse women’s interest. Walt Chase was getting seventy-five dollars a week now. She would like to be earning that much. She knew what she would do with it: she’d begin to put by a hundred a month, and invest it in good securities; when she grew old or wanted to take a vacation, she would have something saved up. She had only commenced to think of these matters recently, but now the idea fired her. It would be wonderful to have a private income of one’s own. And perhaps she might take her mother with her on a little jaunt to Europe! ... But matrimony? No, marriage was too great a risk, too much of an experiment. She acknowledged she loved Martin Devlin as much as she could ever love any man. Of that she was sure. She was not equally sure she would always be happy with him, that she would like married life itself. Why risk something that might bring her untold sadness?

So Jeannette had argued before Martin arrived to see her and so she had planned to tell him. It was a familiar conclusion with her, but this time she determined that he should have the truth and she would convince him that she could never marry him. But when Martin put his big fingers around her arm and drew her strongly to him, crushing her in his embrace while he forced his lips against hers, she wanted to swoon in his arms and so die. The weakness was but momentary; she fled from him, won control of herself again, and the bars were up once more between them. But she had not been able to bring herself to enunciate her high resolve; she had refused the ring, yet Martin had returned to New York with the confident feeling that some day she would wear it.

Mr. Corey had entirely regained his old buoyancy during the six weeks’ rest. He came back to his desk with all the dynamic energy which had so impressed Jeannette when she first became his secretary. She, too, was glad to be home again, back in her own office, resuming her daily routine, gathering up the threads of activity and influence she loved to have within her grasp, and seeing Martin every day. Alice, with her round eyes reflecting in their depths that same curious light Jeannette had noticed when the first baby was coming, welcomed her mother and sister in the gayest of spirits. She was having not nearly the same degree of discomfort, she told them, that she had had while carrying Etta. She made them come to dinner the night they arrived in New York; she wanted them to see the baby, and to show them the sewing machine Roy was buying for her on the installment plan. Martin was included in the party. This troubled Jeannette a little, for it seemed to establish him in the family circle.

She had returned from White Sulphur Springs on Sunday. On Tuesday, Mr. Corey did not come to the office all day. Jeannette had expected him; he had said nothing to her about being absent; she had no idea where he was. On Wednesday, when he came in, in the middle of the morning, a strained white look upon his face told her at once that something had gone wrong. He rang for her almost immediately, and indicated a chair for her, while he instructed the operator at the telephone switch-board he was not to be disturbed.

“Miss Sturgis,” he began, working a troubled thumb and forefinger at the ends of his moustache, “I have some unhappy, news for you; it has been unhappy for me, and I fear it will be equally so for you. Mrs. Corey as you know is a high-strung, temperamental woman. You’ve no doubt observed she had a decidedly suspicious nature....”

Jeannette’s heart stood still. In a flash she saw what was coming. A gathering roar began mounting in her ears, every muscle grew tense. She could see Mr. Corey’s mouth moving, his lips forming words and she heard his voice, but what he was saying, was meaningless to her; she could get no sense out of it. Suddenly he came to the word “divorce.” Her whole nature seemed to have been waiting for him to say it; as he pronounced it, she sat bolt upright, and a quick convulsion passed through her. At once her mind was clear and she was able to follow everything he was saying.

“... wrote her a long letter from the hotel. I was loving and affectionate in it--as affectionate as I knew how to be, for I feared the unfortunate matter of the telegrams would anger her. I think I wrote some eight or nine pages, and I tried to explain that you had been merely actuated by your solicitude for me. In my anxiety to placate her, I spoke very harshly of you, told her that you realised you had overstepped your province, that I had given you a severe reprimand and that you were much chagrined. I explained to her carefully your mother was with us, but she knew that was to be before we left. I assured her of my devotion. I got no answer. I suspected before we reached New York that she was at outs with me, but there have been other occasions when this was so, and I had no doubt that I could soothe her injured feelings. She had always resented your being my secretary; of course, you’ve known that. I did not dream, however, that she was as angry with me as she evidently is. She has shut herself into her own apartment at home and declines to see me; she is preparing to file against me a suit for absolute divorce, accusing me of improper conduct with you at White Sulphur Springs, claiming that your mother was bribed into conniving----”

“_Oh!_” gasped Jeannette.

“I am telling you these unpleasant details, so that you can fully grasp the situation. You will have to know in any case, and I think it is only fair to you to give you the whole truth from the start. She has gone to Leonard and Harvester and persuaded them to represent her. I don’t know what Dick Leonard is thinking about; he has known me for twenty years. Winchell, whom I saw yesterday, has been to interview Leonard, and he informs me that a detective agency was employed to watch us while we were at the hotel, and that affidavits have been obtained from some of the hotel employees which substantiate Mrs. Corey’s allegations.”

Mr. Corey smiled wryly.

“I don’t want to go on shocking you in this fashion. I just wish to say that Winchell showed me a copy of the plea, and the statements contained in it are as odious as they are false. You and I have been spared nothing.”

Again Mr. Corey paused, and a savage frown gathered on his brow. Jeannette was trembling; she wet her lips and swallowed convulsively.

“The brunt of the attack,” he resumed after a moment, “seems to be levelled against you. Leonard told Winchell that Mrs. Corey had no desire to expose me,--that was the word used; she wishes to bring to an immediate termination a relationship which she cannot tolerate; she declines,--so Leonard states,--to remain my wife as long as you are my secretary. As Winchell points out we have no way of determining whether or not she is in earnest. Of course she cannot prove her suit; she can prove nothing; but she sees quite clearly she can blacken your reputation before the world and force you out of this office by the very publicity which is bound to be attached to the case.... It makes me angry; it makes me _very_ angry. I have been thinking over the situation from every angle, and I would willingly, and, I confess, with a good deal of relish, contest her suit, force her to retract every word she has said against either of us, and assist you in every way I could in suing her for libel. All my life my guiding principle has been justice. I believe in justice; I believe in a square deal, and this is foul, rank and outrageously unfair. If there was any possible way of obtaining justice for you I wouldn’t care anything for myself. I would welcome the publicity; certainly I have no cause to dread it. But it would serve you hard.... Take our own office here,--how many of those people outside there would believe in your or my innocence, no matter how completely we were vindicated?

“But far more important that the opinion of any one of those out there,--or that of all of them together,--is the effect this unpleasant story would have upon your young man. No doubt he has the same confidence in you that I have, but you will appreciate that no man likes to have for a wife a girl who has been mixed up in a scandal.... You see, how it would be? ... Devlin is a fine fellow; I like him; he will make his mark. You have confided in me that you care for him.... Well, Miss Sturgis, I advise you to marry him!--marry him before this ugly story gets bruited abroad. I am convinced it will never be told. I know Mrs. Corey and I know how she will act. As soon as she hears you are married and no longer here, she will withdraw her suit and be anxious to make amends. I have no desire for a divorce. I understand all too well that it will be Mrs. Corey who will suffer if we are separated, not I, and I have the wish to protect her against herself. There are the children to think of, too. This is merely the act of an insane woman,--a woman blinded by jealousy. Outrageously unfair as it is to you, and much as I shall hate to part with you, it seems to be the wisest thing to do. Winchell advises it, and I confess when I think of your own interests and everything that is involved, I agree with him. What do you think?”

Jeannette sat staring at her folded hands. Slowly the tears welled themselves up over her lashes and splashed upon the crisp linen of her shirtwaist. She was not sorrowful; she was only hurt,--hurt and cruelly shocked that anyone could believe the things Mrs. Corey had said of her and this man who was father, friend, and counsellor to her, whom she loved and respected and who, she knew, loved and respected her in return. Their relationship during the four and a half years they had been so intimately associated had been above criticism; it had been perfect, irreproachable. Jeannette felt foully smirched by the base imputation.

“_Gracious--goodness!_” she said at last upon a quivering breath, her breast rising. Tears trembled on her lashes, but for the instant her eyes blazed.

“Well,” Mr. Corey said wearily after a pause, “it’s too bad,--isn’t it?”

Too bad? Too bad? Ah, yes, it was indeed too bad! Silence filled the book-lined room, the very room she had taken such pains and such delight in furnishing so tastefully. She recalled Mrs. Corey had resented that! She had put some fresh pine boughs in the earthenware pot in the corner yesterday, and the office smelled fragrantly of balsam. The rumble of the presses below sent a fine tremor through the building. Both man and girl stared at the floor. They were thinking the same things; there was no need to voice them; both understood; it was all clear now to each.

He was right. The best thing,--the only thing for her to do was to resign. That would immediately pacify his wife; it would avert the breach and save Corey from an ugly scandal which could only hurt him. And then there was herself to consider, her own good name, her mother and Alice, and there was Martin! Nothing stood in the way now of her giving him the answer for which he eagerly waited. Martin! Ah, there was a refuge for her, there was a haven ready to welcome her! He would take her to himself, protect her, shield her against these slandering tongues!

Suddenly at the thought of him, so merry and strong and confident, of his joy at the promise she was now free to make, the floodgates of her heart opened and, bowing her head upon her fiercely clasped hands, she burst into convulsive sobbing.